


spell it out

by h_lovely



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Consensual Sex, Herbalism, Leather and lace, M/M, Magic, Riding, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smoking, Witchcraft, all the spooky tropes, consensual use of magic during sex, witchy banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:31:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h_lovely/pseuds/h_lovely
Summary: Ever since Matsukawa’s new neighbor moved in downstairs, things have been a little bit…strange.





	1. wanna reach out and grab ya

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! This spooky special is written in three parts, updated from now through Halloween =^.^= Enjoy!
> 
> [theme music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QyoRzZrF00)  
>   
> 

Matsukawa Issei has never been a superstitious person. Things like cracked mirrors or salt spilled atop the kitchen counter had never much mattered to him, nor had he considered any spell of bad luck to be in conjuncture with such mundane things as that. 

However.

It’s the third day in a row this has happened—there on the stoop of his duplex, resting velvet paws atop the slightly uneven too-steep steps up to his second floor apartment sits a now familiar visitor. All black fur, sleek and well-groomed, ears perfectly pointed and long tail swishing in some form of greeting. But it’s the eyes—those full moon yellow eyes, slit black down the middle and filled with so much knowing intelligence—it’s the eyes that get him every time. 

Matsukawa nods for some incomprehensible reason just like he has for the last two days of stumbling across the visitor carefully watching him on his way home from work. He’s been wondering, vaguely, if it’s a stray—there’s no collar around it’s neck, but it looks well-fed and not the least bit mangey. Still, it’s sudden and consistent appearance is enough to pique anyone’s curiosity, Matsukawa assumes. 

He’s never been a superstitious person, and yet—

In the distance something rumbles; thunder he thinks at first considering the grey state the sky overhead has been living in for nearly a week, the clouds looking just about ready to split with a heavy downpour. But then comes the sound of beeping, city sounds and car engines accompany the deep noise and Matsukawa thinks they’ve staved off a thunderstorm once again, for now at least. 

Despite the lack of precipitation, the air around him is chilled with autumn wind and bites at his cheeks and any bit of skin not protected by his overcoat and scarf. ‘Unseasonably cold’ the weatherman says and Matsukawa would be inclined to agree, though the weather doesn’t really bother him, never really has.

The cat, it seems, might share this sentiment. Black fur is puffed up around it’s neck, but otherwise the creature seems unaffected by the temperature or the new screeching peel of impatient tires against asphalt. A city cat, apparently. 

Matsukawa thinks probably he should step up around the animal like he has for the past two days, passing it by and ignoring the feel of glowing eyes following him as he goes. But today something stirs a little in his chest, the cold wind sucking into his lungs and making him feel a little _more_ than curious. 

“Hey,” he says into the calm bit of space between them and for some unearthly reason Matsukawa thinks maybe the cat might just answer back. 

It doesn’t—but the distinct vibration of a purr rises up to Matsukawa’s ears, thick and somewhat comforting, and it’s answer enough for him.

When he bends down, the cement beneath his knee licks cold straight through his jeans but he doesn’t mind, reaching out a tentative hand and watching closely for the cat’s reaction. 

Those round eyes blink, bored but not dismissive. They’re still so knowing and Matsukawa has such an inherent need to ask _what about_. 

Beneath his fingers the cat’s fur is as soft as it looks, ears silky when he scratches behind them, earning a new bout of purring, deeper and less controlled. Matsukawa can’t help but grin at the reaction. “This what you wanted?” he murmurs with a chuckle. “You’re a princess, hm?” 

“More like a spoiled brat.”

The deep rumble of a voice startles Matsukawa enough to jolt a bit in his kneeling position, turning quickly to meet a pair of slate-grey eyes, somehow familiar and knowing in their own right. 

At the newcomer’s appearance the cat lets out a low meow, something almost annoyed if Matsukawa were to actually analyze it—which he’s _not,_ but—

“Sorry,” he says quickly, not really certain what he’s apologizing for. He stands and finds the man’s height nearly comparable with his own, though Matsukawa predictably still has a few centimeters on him. 

“Ah, no problem,” the guy says with a lazy shrug. “She’s just mad she’s been neglected the last few days, y’know what with moving and all that.” 

Distantly in Matsukawa’s mind he remembers something about a new tenant in the apartment below his and—oh, so _this_ is his new neighbor. 

Matsukawa nods, catching himself before he can give the man too much of an obvious once over but it’s tricky, considering the way his dark pants hug long legs and thick thighs, that black collared shirt tailored slim in the waist and buttoned fully up to a pale neck dotted with coppery freckles that lick up the man’s jaw and cheeks. But, even if it’s hard to tear his eyes away, it’s not all that that’s really got Matsukawa’s attention out of sorts. 

The guy’s got pink hair—not just some drug-store dye job, but soft looking shades of blush and peach and bubblegum that all glow even in the greying dusk of late evening. It’s pretty enough to tempt Matsukawa’s fingers into twitching with the need to run through the short locks, but he holds off from doing so with an ungodly amount of restraint. 

Instead he says, “Hey.” 

Matsukawa is nothing if not eloquent, after all. 

“Hey yourself, neighbor,” comes the reply, and the stranger apparently has _zero_ qualms about checking out his new neighbor considering how openly he eyes Matsukawa.

Matsukawa in turn feels something claw at his stomach, something uncertain and almost apprehensive which doesn’t really make much sense at all seeing as how seconds before he’d been calculating just how attractive this guy is—not intimidating or unnerving in the least. But now—

That low voice startles Matsukawa from his thoughts along with a long-fingered hand thrust in his direction. “Hanamaki Takahiro,” the man introduces himself with a cheerful grin, plush lips pulling up at the corners pleasingly. 

The movement causes a pendant around his neck, hanging just below the collar of his shirt, to catch Matsukawa’s eye—a clear looking oblong stone wrapped with silver wire at the top dangling from a matching chain.

Matsukawa clears his throat even though he doesn’t really need to. “Matsukawa Issei,” he replies, accepting the other’s handshake and trying not to let his surprise show when he feels how warm the man’s palm is against his own. 

Something lingers even after Hanamaki releases his hand; warmth, but also something else, something like a static spark that crawls up Matsukawa’s arm and spreads over his skin. _Gooseflesh_ , Matsukawa’s mind decides, even though he suddenly feels too-hot in his thick coat.

“Well, I’m glad to see she’s made friends with you,” Hanamaki says, brushing past Matsukawa to wrap his arms around the cat still sitting watching them both. “Abra can be a bit picky with people, can’t you?” 

The way Hanamaki coos the question out, rocking the begrudging animal against his chest is so entirely endearing that Matsukawa isn’t able to quite control his tongue when he blurts out, “Abra?”

Hanamaki blinks over at him, stopping his cooing and staring at Matsukawa with something definitely mischievous, a look that suits him all too well. “Oh—you know, as in ‘cadabra?’” 

It takes a few seconds for things to click inside Matsukawa’s head, but when they do he can’t fight the tiny smirk that the name evokes. Fitting—both for the cat herself and her owner, in some way Matsukawa isn’t entirely able to grasp just yet. 

In the dwindling light of day, beneath the soft glow of new moonlight, he thinks he sees that little pendant glow the same startling shade of Hanamaki’s hair, but Matsukawa has never been a superstitious person so he decides it’s just his eyes playing tricks on him. 

* * *

Over the next few days Matsukawa notices several intriguing things happening in the apartment just below his own.

First, this Hanamaki guy doesn’t exactly seem to have a job—or at least not one that forces him to wake up before the sun and trudge home after a ten hour work day. 

Matsukawa sees him once in the morning watering a couple of flowering burgundy mums and what looks weirdly like onion or garlic stalks in pots on his front stoop. A couple of times he’s run into him in the late evening again, Abra in her usual spot curled on the steps as though they’re both waiting for his return. Hanamaki makes pretty good casual conversation, which Matsukawa can appreciate, but the second time he sees him the entirety of his hands and forearms are stained a vibrant purple, Hanamaki seemingly unaware or else just uncaring, and Matsukawa decides then that whatever job Hanamaki might have, it’s not one he’s ready to ask about just yet. 

Second, the times Matsukawa _is_ home he finds quite a variety of visitors strolling up to their duplex, waiting patiently on the steps or else knocking tentatively on Hanamaki’s front door. Matsukawa can hear the telltale knocks when he sits in the front room near the window above Hanamaki’s entryway, can hear the deep timbre of Hanamaki’s greeting when he lets said visitors inside without any hesitation. 

On Saturday alone he tallied twelve different guests, ranging from elderly couples to young university students, and he’s never in his life felt more creepy than that evening when he looks to his phone’s notes and realizes what he’s done. 

Third—well, the third one is kind of difficult to explain away. It’s not as though Hanamaki isn’t allowed to use his kitchen, the one Matsukawa knows is located directly below his own, the one from which all manner of different aromas have wafted up to his apartment each day and lingered, though not unpleasantly. And the thing is, it’s not always food aromas; occasionally there’s the scent of lilac and cedar and sage, other times it’s more powerful, incense of sandalwood or patchouli. Once it was a sweet aroma, vanilla and the scent of warm baked goods filling his entire apartment. 

Tonight it’s something amber, with a hint of warm mentsuyu and curry. 

Outside, the grey coating of clouds in the sky have finally decided to burst, thick sheets of rain pounding against the cement and occasionally the panes of the front room window when the wind blows heavy enough. Thunder rolls true this time and occasionally Matsukawa’s eyes catch the flash of lightning just before the telltale rumble from his spot tucked into the couch.

In the kitchen a styrofoam cup rotates slowly in the microwave and the television is turned to some drama he’s not really paying much attention to; a typical Sunday evening alone. 

Outside, a crackle of thunder hits nearly in unison with a bright glow of lightning, the entire house rattling from top to bottom. Matsukawa watches blankly as the lights flicker, the television cuts to black and the power subsequently abandons him too. 

There is a brief moment wherein Matsukawa thinks that if he doesn’t move, doesn’t breath, that if he just waits a few more seconds it will turn back on.

It doesn’t.

Luckily there’s enough mottled moonlight from outside so the apartment isn’t entirely thrown into pitch black darkness. He makes the slow trek into the kitchen, using the meager light of his phone screen to guide him; there’s a distinct lack of hum from his refrigerator and the digital clock on the microwave doesn’t flash it’s green numbers at him when he opens the door with a click. He stares forlornly down into the half-cooked cup of noodles, mostly still stiff and dry, and lets loose a heavy sigh. 

The aroma of curry still wafts up from downstairs, but now along with it Matsukawa can make out a few loud thumps and an unidentifiable crash, then—

_“Ah, fuck!”_

The voice radiates up through the floorboards, echoing in the vents. Matsukawa can identify it easily as Hanamaki, though he toys with the idea that the man’s got one of his many visitors over—but no, he knows that voice well enough by now. 

Matsukawa takes another look at the lukewarm cup in his hands before setting it on the counter and settling into the idea that maybe he aught to check on his neighbor. After all, he’s got nothing better to do now that the power’s out, right?

His coat is in the hall closet and he shrugs it on over his long sleeve thermal, tucking feet into his boots but not bothering with the laces for the short trek downstairs. It’s still raining, though not quite as heavily as before. When he closes his front door behind him, locking it, the sky lights up with another round of lightning, just enough to put an electric fizzle in the air that he can practically taste on his tongue. 

When he’s stopped in front of Hanamaki’s door, Matsukawa hesitates. His mums are looking a little sad, some of their petals having succumbed to the rain dripping heavily off the eaves and spilling over the old gutters. It’s when he finally get’s the courage to lift his fist to the door that the thing simply opens, almost as if at its own volition. 

Matsukawa’s hit with that warm aroma from before, only this time much stronger; it wraps its tendrils around his body beckoning him forward, but just before he can step over the threshold he’s met with that familiar pink hair and those knowing eyes, both pairs. 

“Issei,” Hanamaki says and it’s not surprise in his voice, but understanding and despite how that should make Matsukawa feel, he can’t help but just nod as he fights the urge to step inside. 

As if reading his mind Hanamaki moves aside, gesturing with a friendly hand and Matsukawa sloughs through the door, careful of Abra underfoot. He leaves his damp shoes in the genkan while Hanamaki takes his coat to dry on an old-fashioned coat wrack in the hallway, rickety and carved out of some kind of wood that’s unpolished and imperfect. 

When Matsukawa follows Hanamaki further into his home his eyes finally take in the other man’s own state of dress. He’s got these flowy pants, close to sweats, but nicer in smooth black fabric that follows every curve of his legs as he walks, wrapped tight around his ankles. His feet and arms are bare, but not looking the least bit chilled, the top he’s wearing is sleeveless and pretty tight over his chest, like an old t-shirt that’d had it’s sleeves removed long ago. It’s casual and yet not, making Matsukawa feel a bit of a slob in his worn jeans that needed a good washing. 

When Hanamaki turns around to fit him with a knowing kind of smirk Matsukawa can see that paired with the usual clear stone dangling from his neck is a longer chain with a silver star pendant today, swaying as Hanamaki walks. 

“Power outage, huh? Fucking sucks,” Hanamaki mutters, almost to himself more than anything. He flicks his hands over the living room and Matsukawa follows their movements finally realizing why everything, including Hanamaki himself, seems to be _glowing_. “You came to the right place though, Issei.” 

Hanamaki couldn’t be more right. Scattered all around the room are candles, lit and warm in the cool darkness; some are just thick homemade looking stumps of wax while others are stuck into ornate brass candle holders, a tarnished silver candelabra balanced carefully on the low wooden kotatsu in the center of the room. All different colors of wax drip and melt with their burning wicks, the light produced nearly as bright as that of Matsukawa’s own electric lamps upstairs. 

There’s something about it—the rain pouring rivulets down the window panes and rows of candles taking up every nook and cranny of Hanamaki’s living room, that aroma of amber and curry and something else Matsukawa can’t quite identify. It’s—almost haunting. 

Matsukawa wonders if all these candles had been in place like this already, or if Hanamaki had scrambled about to get them lit the second the power had gone out. He thinks maybe that’s what the nosies from before had been, though as his eyes count out all of the individual flames he thinks it would’ve taken Hanamaki a lot longer than just a few minutes—

“You hungry?” Hanamaki's voice interrupts Matsukawa’s derailing thoughts, as it seems to often do.

Something brushes against his legs and it takes a lot of reservation not to startle, even if with one quick glance he can see Abra wrapping her tail around his lower calf as she presses against him in something he assumes is a greeting. 

Hanamaki’s lids grow even heavier over his eyes as he watches Matsukawa for an answer, something definitely attractive in the way the man has smudged dark coal into the line of his coppery lashes. 

Matsukawa nods. “Sure.”

At this, Hanamaki seems inordinately pleased, turning on his heel and heading towards the kitchen with a lightness to his steps that Matsukawa can’t help but admire. It’s got nothing to do with the way those pants hug his hips—no, certainly _not_. 

Just as Matsukawa’s own apartment, Hanamaki’s kitchen isn’t much, especially with such little light available save the trickle of moonlight through the window and the line of mismatched candles scattered over the countertop. But the meager size and old appliances are the only similarities that Matsukawa can see. 

Hanamaki’s kitchen—well, it’s not exactly anything Matsukawa has seen ever before. The walls appear to have been freshly painted, a coat of dark plum or blue, it’s hard to tell in this light and now that Matsukawa thinks about it, the living room had been just the same; dark but comfortable, cozy. 

Along the deep window sill sit a variety of pots with all manner of little plants stuck in the soil there—dark leathery greens, fragrant basil, mint, and lemon balm. There’s a pink flowering plant in a painted jade pot and on the counter next to the sink he finds a couple of larger planters filled with sage and lavender and other things he can’t manage to identify. In the window itself hang several bundles of dried herbs, upside down and held together with rough twine. 

Atop the fridge there’s a wooden crate filled with every shape and size of bottle and jar—thick and squat, tall and skinny, some with cork stoppers and others died in jewel tones: peacock blue, violet and emerald. Beside the stove where a heavy copper pot sits, steam still rising from the contents within, Matsukawa can see a bronze mortar and pestle and a glass alembic that looks like it might just be an antique. 

“Still warm,” Hanamaki hums, moving to stand over the pot on the stove to check on whatever it is he’d been cooking. His eyes flicker over to Matsukawa as he rummages for a wooden ladle in a homemade ceramic crock. “Curry udon okay?”

Matsukawa thinks, mind feeling a little bit fogged with the warmth of the kitchen and the myriad of scents filling his lungs, that Hanamaki could have said anything in that moment and he would have agreed to it.

“Sounds great,” he answers, able to get his tongue in somewhat working order. 

The heavily scented plants are making his eyes itch a little and Matsukawa rubs at them with the edge of his palm as Hanamaki retrieves a couple of bowls and mismatched chopsticks from an open set of shelves. The unit seems to harbor not only dishes and mugs, but also some bizarre little trinkets, jars of dried spices, coffee beans and several types of sugar; each one of them is scrawled with a hand written label in messy, ink kanji. 

“C’mon, we can eat in here,” Hanamaki says after ladling a couple of hefty helpings of noodles and golden broth. Matsukawa thinks it’s lucky that Hanamaki had been finished with his cooking before the power had cut, unlike his own sad excuse of a dinner. 

Matsukawa follows him back into the living room, rounding a stack of books sitting waist high next to an already swollen bookcase that looks almost as though it were built straight into the floor and ceiling with how tight of a fit it is. There’s a few patterned rugs lining the floor, mismatched and faded with age, and several cushions stacked around the kotatsu, one of the only pieces of furniture that looks relatively new. 

If the power had been working Matsukawa assumes that the lamp settled against the wall would glow an array of beautiful colors considering it’s lampshade is made up of intricate stained glass and jewels. It’s hard to tell, but that might just be a large iron pot stuck halfway beneath a woven afghan in the corner of the room. There’s a couple of radios, old-fashioned, and a television set up on a wood table, so small and chunky that Matsukawa can’t imagine it’s from this decade. Abra has curled herself on the velvet pillow tucked beneath it. 

“Sorry about the clutter,” Hanamaki explains and Matsukawa thinks it’s more than just clutter, but he doesn’t bother voicing such an opinion mostly because everything about the apartment somehow suits Hanamaki more than it makes him seem like some kind of hoarder or slob.

They sit across from one another at the low table, Hanamaki brushing aside a few notebooks and a pair of round wire-frame glasses to make room for his bowl. Outside the rain still pelts just loud enough against the asphalt to offer up a bit of background noise, though otherwise the room is filled with nothing more than soft purrs, warm candlelight, and Hanamaki’s contented hum with he tucks into his meal.

The food _is_ good, Matsukawa decides on his very first bite of tender potato slathered in golden curry, just the right side of spicy. The noodles are thick and the broth hot all the way to the last dregs as his helping dwindles quickly. He’s not sure he’s ever had curry udon so satisfying in his life and when he looks up to tell Hanamaki so, the other man actually manages a pretty flush across his cheeks. 

“It’s nothing,” Hanamaki chuckles, and it’s the first time Matsukawa has heard him sound the least bit hesitant. “I’ll invite you back when I’ve made a fresh batch of profiteroles and cardamom tea, now _that’s_ my specialty.” 

Matsukawa’s never had cardamom tea before, but if it’s really Hanamaki’s specialty, he thinks it might just turn out to be his favorite. 

“So,” Hanamaki says, stirring chopsticks through the bit of broth at the bottom of his bowl. “What should we do, Matsukawa Issei?

At this Matsukawa looks up, tears his eyes away from the slender bones of Hanamaki’s bare wrist. “Do?”

“You know, with the power being out and all.” Hanamaki flicks his fingers around the room for effect and Matsukawa can’t help his gaze from following their sporadic movements. “Kinda boring—I’m glad you came down. You’re good company y’know?” 

“How do you know that?” Matsukawa says and he can feel that his voice is a bit softer and deeper than usual, maybe because of the small distance between them and the lack of ambient noise. “I’ve only been here long enough to mooch dinner off of you.”

Behind Hanamaki, shadows drip down the wall, flickering with the candles slowly growing shorter and shorter as the night crawls on. 

“I’ve just got a sixth sense for these kind of things,” Hanamaki explains with no small amount of mischief and a grin that Matsukawa is starting to get very attached to. “And you, Issei—I’ve got a good sense about you.”

The way Hanamaki says his given name, in that husky voice of his, it’s really starting to get Matsukawa in all sorts of dangerous ways. 

He clears his throat, for lack of anything better. “What would you be doing—if the power wasn’t out?” he wonders. 

Hanamaki puts on a show of contemplating the question, running his thumb against his lower lip. “Hm, I dunno. Probably stuff I can do now without power anyways.” His grin grows just a bit wider and Matsukawa is almost certain he can see something glinting in his eye, even in the dull light. “But still, I like having the company.”

Matsukawa lets his gaze shift around the room, taking in the black and white almanac calendar tacked up on the wall, a few polaroid snaps, and the macrame hanging planter flowing with lush, creeping vines next to the overcrowded rosewood bookcase. 

“Do a lot of reading,” he asks on impulse, something tickling the back of his neck; smoky tendrils. “By candlelight?”

Hanamaki offers an appreciative tip of his head, lips quirking. “How could you tell?”

“I was kind of joking,” Matsukawa deadpans with only the tiniest hint of disbelief. 

“Me too,” Hanamaki answers in the most serious of manners, voice level and deep, but still somehow Matsukawa can sense the falsity there just the same. 

Beside them, under the decrepit television console, a slumbering Abra stretches out a long front paw, claws gleaming in the lowlight. Three of the candles to Matsukawa’s right, some round pillars, have spilled most of their wax down the ceramic platter they’re gathered on, sat atop a peeling-paint stool like the kind Matsukawa’s grandmother used to have on her back porch near that rusty old faucet.

“We could always smoke,” Hanamaki offers, like it’s an ordinary thing to say. 

“Smoke?” Matsukawa frowns, not judgmentally. “Didn’t take you for that kind guy.”

“Nothing illegal, _silly_ ,” Hanamaki taps his fingers atop the kotatsu, tilting his head in a manner that forces Matsukawa to swallow down a snort. “I’ve got all sorts of different stuff. What d’you need? Something to relax the muscles, a remedy for anxiety, insomnia, depression?”

“What are you, a shrink?” 

“You might say that.”

Matsukawa shakes his head, unfairly amused and endeared by the banter. He watches the man closely. Says, “You really smoke—what, like herbs and shit?”

“Herbs and shit, Issei, are the best kind of shit to smoke.”

He says it in such a way that Matsukawa can’t hope to not believe him. There’s that enigmatic grin again, and when Hanamaki moves to tuck his chin atop his fist, those pendants around his neck shift against the firm muscles of his chest, not hidden very well by the thin, black fabric there.

“Okay.” Matsukawa licks his lips, takes the bait. “What do _you_ like to smoke then?”

“Ah, a man of good taste.” Hanamaki winks one eye closed, the smudging of makeup a shadow crawling up his eyelid. “My usual’s skullcap and lemon balm, but sometimes I like to add a little mugwort, y’know if I’m feeling it.”

Matsukawa presses his lips together. “Feeling it,” he parrots, blankly. 

“Yeah, it kinda gives you some trippy dreams, nothing too intense though.” Hanamaki points a finger gun at Matsukawa’s chest, wiggling his thumb. “Cause, like I said, nothing illegal and all.”

“Uh-huh.” Matsukawa nods, trying to feel a little suspicious or apprehensive, but unable to bring himself to it, not with those pretty heavy-lidded eyes staring straight through him.

Outside the rain has picked up again, pounding against the front window and Matsukawa wonders vaguely if Hanamaki’s mums will make it out of the storm in any salvageable form. 

Hanamaki stands, not exactly waiting for any confirmation from Matsukawa, and saunters into the kitchen. There’s about thirty or so seconds wherein Matsukawa has the ability to slip back into his boots and back upstairs to his normal apartment and not enter into anymore of what Hanamaki is offering him. 

Instead he runs his palms over the soft fabric of the floor cushion, let’s his shoulders slump and lungs pull in the lingering smell of warm cooking, melted paraffin, and rich amber. 

When Hanamaki returns he’s carrying a carved wooden box under his arm, a handful of baggies, an ashtray, a small decanter of some golden brown liquid and a couple of mismatched glasses. 

The baggies, Matsukawa realizes when Hanamaki smacks them onto the table, are filled with several different dried herbs and plants, things he really can’t hope to identify. He eyes the decanter too, a bit hesitantly.

“Nothing potent, just spiced cider,” Hanamaki answers the unspoken question, obviously reading his guest’s expression. “Helps cut through the smoke burn, y’know?”

Matsukawa _doesn’t_ know, but he nods along anyways because he’ll trust Hanamaki to all of this business that he’s starting to think might just have to do with some of the _business_ he’s been noticing happening at the apartment downstairs ever since his new neighbor moved in. 

“You do this a lot?” he asks as Hanamaki opens up that wooden box to reveal a few skinny cigarillos and a stack of rolling papers. 

“S’not a habit,” Hanamaki replies easily. He plucks two papers off the stack, moving to the herbs next. “But it’s nice and relaxing after a long day, especially if you’re feeling a bit wired.” 

Matsukawa can’t help himself. “Feeling wired tonight?” he wonders, letting the words and their implications hang heavy in the air between them.

Hanamaki’s gaze flicks up to meet his head-on, holding it steady and calm. There’s something growing there, heated. Matsukawa takes in the view as Hanamaki’s lips twitch up at the corners, an answer in and of itself perhaps. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” the man answers, tongue gliding out to wet his bottom lip. “ _Something_ though, that’s for sure.”

Sensation wracks up Matsukawa’s spine, a shiver but not anything chilled. He’d say he’s feeling _something_ too, but he can’t quite find the word or the guts to tell Hanamaki that. 

He watches patiently as the man licks at the edge of one of the papers before sticking them together and spreading a small line of tiny leaves first and then adding a bit of dried greenery which Matsukawa thinks might be the skullcap Hanamaki had mentioned earlier. When the man reaches for the third bag his eyes hover up over Matsukawa’s chest, up his neck, and finally pull up to meet his own gaze again.

“Feeling like some good dreams tonight, Issei?” 

That voice, velvet and smoky, seeps into Matsukawa’s mind and all he can manage to think about is just what _type_ of dreams Hanamaki is referring to. 

He inclines his head, eyeing the dried bit of mugwort in the packet pinched between Hanamaki’s slender fingers. “Not too intense, you said?”

“Nah, it’s a mild psychotropic. Never had nothing but a more _vivid_ night’s sleep with it, I promise,” comes Hanamaki’s answer. 

And Matsukawa has no reason to take this guy’s promise to heart, but for some reason he does anyways. He observes the way Hanamaki expertly adds the last line of dried herbs before bringing the fat little roll up to his mouth to seal it closed. 

“We can share this one,” Hanamaki explains. “In case it’s not your thing, hm?”

He brings the stick up to his mouth, holding it gently between his lips andflicks his thumb and middle finger together in a harsh snap before lighting the end of the stick right before Matsukawa’s disbelieving eyes. 

He’s absolutely certain that his jaw drops open a few centimeters, some type of sound exiting his mouth before Hanamaki’s serious expression melts into something so incredibly amused. He throws his head back with a laugh, the stick still stuck between his lips, and the little flame hovering over his thumb puffing out with a flick of Hanamaki’s wrist. 

“What the fuck?” Matsukawa’s brows furrow in confusion, but Hanamaki beats him to anything else by revealing the little match hidden within his palm. 

He plucks the stick from his mouth and around a stream of wispy smoke his smirk pulls wide. “A parlor trick,” Hanamaki explains. “Never gets old either.” 

Somewhere in the distance thunder rolls through, Matsukawa having missed any flash of lightning in favor of staring at Hanamaki’s bright amusement at his own expense. But for a second there he’d really thought—

“Here,” Hanamaki shoves the homemade cigarette in front of Matsukawa’s nose a little brusquely as though he’s trying to distract. 

It works though, Matsukawa’s brain flicking all his attention back on the man now hovering a bit closer than before, having switched pillows to sit adjacent to Matsukawa rather than all the way across the table. Matsukawa doesn’t mind the new warmth and plucks the stick from Hanamaki’s fingers with little hesitation. 

A tingle of lemon assaults his senses even before he’s brought the cigarette to his mouth, sucking in and trying his best not to let the first puff burn at the back of his throat even though it inevitably does. He coughs a couple of times around the smoke, but the herbs are fairly mellow compared to some of the things he’s smoked in the past. 

Hanamaki hums low in his throat as Matsukawa relinquishes his hold on the cigarette. He watches with a half-lidded gaze as Hanamaki takes a longer drag, thick lashes splaying shadows against the tops of his cheeks. 

The cider, just like Hanamaki had promised, proves to help a lot, soothing the itch in his throat even with the kick of spices blended in there too. Hanamaki’s lips curve into something round and hollow and Matsukawa tries to memorize the dregs of smoke and the few wobbly rings that leak out into the air between them.

There’s absolutely nothing sexual about smoking herbal supplements with your downstairs neighbor in their weird little living room when the power is out—and yet Matsukawa can feel some sort of frenetic energy starting to claw it’s way up his body and under his skin. Especially when Hanamaki pouts his lips— _just_ like that.

He’s caught staring easily enough, not like he’d been hiding it anyways, but still Matsukawa can feel that hint of warm flush burning down his neck just the same. 

“Hm.” Hanamaki swallows, purses his lips a bit as he seems to observe Matsukawa before pressing the stick back into his waiting fingers. “Second time’s the charm, Issei.”

That voice melds into Matsukawa’s mind as he pulls for a second drag, this time a pleasant tingle mingling with that familiar itch. His head’s a bit lighter now too, but he’s not sure that’s entirely from the herbs. 

He feels smoke curl out of his nose and lips, feels Hanamaki watching closely, feels something tugging in his ribcage. 

“ _Very_ good company,” he hears Hanamaki whisper just under his breath before he takes his next puff. The cigarette’s burned down nearly halfway already and Matsukawa can’t help himself from feeling a bit disappointed in that. 

After tapping some of the ash from the end into the lumpy little ashtray, Hanamaki flicks his fingers, twirling the lit end of the cigarette towards himself and offering up the other to Matsukawa. 

It’s a question, or maybe even a challenge, and even though Matsukawa’s feeling a bit more foggy, the logical part of his brain doesn’t even try to stop him from leaning forward, palms pressing down into those soft cushions, and sucking a breath straight from Hanamaki’s steady fingers. 

His ears don’t pick up anything other than the faintest sound of Hanamaki’s heart beating inside his chest. The rain might’ve finally let up outside, Abra may have slinked off somewhere by now, but he can’t be sure because all Matsukawa can seem to focus on is the sound of that soft thumping heartbeat growing louder and louder in his ears with each second he holds that smoke in his lungs. 

Down the hall something chimes, low and haunting, a grandfather clock maybe, and it’s enough to startle Matsukawa out of his daze. The smoke swirls in front of his eyes, pleasing and lemony in flavor and scent. He blinks and finds Hanamaki staring at him, gaze a bit wider than usual. 

The cigarette still burns, getting closer to Hanamaki’s fingers where Matsukawa can see his nails are trimmed short and neat, painted a glossy black. 

The lamp in the corner flickers to life, but the streetlights outside remain dark and unflinching. 

Matsukawa watches the way Hanamaki’s throat tightens as he swallows, thinks about the way it might feel beneath his lips. 

The power returns with a brief whiff of ozone and one of the radios crackles to life halfway though an old song—some slow psychedelic rock number. 

Hanamaki grins a little, less impish than earlier, more soft than anything. That stone around his neck glows ruby pink beneath the stained glass lamplight. “See I told you. Good shit, huh?”

As the cigarette falls to the ashtray forgotten, the dulcet tones of mellow guitar and bass lulling his mind, Matsukawa can’t help but agree. 


	2. must be the season of the witch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [theme music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAzTnsSgs2s)   
>    
> 

Matsukawa finds himself in bed. Not his own bed, just _a_ bed—a big, luxurious bed of chenille pillows, down quilts and a woven afghan that looks so familiar to his mind’s eye and smells of amber and dust. 

Something thumps, reverberating the walls around him, dark walls draped in shadows and the occasional flicker of candlelight from the irregular piles of wax and wicks and flames surrounding the bed on all sides. A heartbeat, Matsukawa thinks, with it’s steady rhythm. Or maybe the low swinging tick of an antique grandfather clock. 

It’s warm, but not from the candles or blankets. Matsukawa’s skin feels hot—hot just underneath the surface, itching and too-hot; melting. Like the wax.

He blinks. Above him one moment there is a dark ceiling, a shimmer of cobweb clinging in the corner. The next a set of eyes, glowing and split black down the middle. 

But it’s not a feline form hovering over him, those hands too strong and familiar where they come to rest on either side of his neck, massaging into the muscles there and down to trace over his collarbones, down his chest, his stomach. 

“ _Issei_ ,” that dark rumble of a voice calls to him and it sounds so faint compared to that constant beating, like he’s submerged underwater, trapped within a membrane. 

Something drips over his lips, thick like honey but slick as it travels over his tongue, down his throat when he swallows. The candles whisper, streams of smoke whirling up from their flames, lemon and spice. 

The grandfather clock strikes the hour and echoes through the room, a crescendo of heartbeat. Something sparks, a flicker of flame over pale flesh and ink black nails. 

Matsukawa shivers and something presses against him, presses him back down into that plush bed. A weight settles into his lap, pleasing and when Matsukawa strains to see what—to see who—

The ceiling above is no longer there, replaced by a blanket of thick darkness and a shining splatter of stars. The moon glows cotton pink. 

Matsukawa starts, neck stiff and head foggy. When he pulls his eyes open he’s met with the first dregs of sunlight creeping across his living room floor. 

He’s on the couch, still in his clothes from the night before. His throat burns and his mouth tastes like ash and clove. 

He’s hard, cock straining against his underwear and jeans. 

* * *

Three days after the storm, after his first evening spent in Hanamaki’s apartment, Matsukawa walks past that familiar front door just like every day but this time finds his eyes roving to stop over those potted mums.

Where their delicate petals had been scattered to the wind and rain on Sunday night, now their flowers are blooming in pristine condition, a deep red wine color and healthy enough to bask in the warm light of an autumn sunset. 

Matsukawa blinks, realizes he’s not exactly got a green thumb himself, but still he wonders—

From behind comes a low and familiar meow, a greeting and a plaintive cry for attention even if the cat herself might pretend otherwise when he turns to meet her glowing gaze. 

It’s in that moment that Hanamaki’s front door creeks open startling Matsukawa enough to step backwards, feeling absurdly like he’s been caught snooping or something.

“—it’ll really do you good I think,” he catches the tail end of whatever it is Hanamaki is saying as the door opens fully to reveal the man and an older woman with greying hair and sunken eyes smiling broadly up at him.

“Thank you, dear,” the woman says, tugging at the wool coat around her shoulders. “You’re such a blessing as always.”

Hanamaki looks up then sharply as if Matsukawa had somehow manifested out of thin air on the steps between their apartments. For a brief second he looks surprised and maybe a little flustered, but he quickly hides the look with a patented smirk and a cheeky wink.

“Of course, of course,” Hanamaki says and Matsukawa knows it’s to his visitor, but those slate-grey eyes never once leave his own. “Same time next week?”

“I’ll be here, Takahiro-kun,” the woman says with an air of seriousness. “And if not, then I’ll see you on the other side dear.”

At this Hanamaki lets loose a deep, stunned puff of laughter and the woman turns to be on her way with a pleased look about her wrinkled features. She doesn’t bat an eye at Matsukawa’s stock still frame as she goes. 

He waits a beat or two, lets the woman get far enough down the block towards the nearest train station before turning his attention back to Hanamaki only to find the man’s gaze open and searching, like he’s reading Matsukawa inside and out. 

Matsukawa adjusts his coat, pulling it a little tighter against the new chill. “A— _friend_ of yours?” he wonders. 

Hanamaki shrugs and Matsukawa can see the smattering of freckles over his shoulders, where the skin is exposed through two circular panels of his dark plum shirt. “What can I say, the ladies love me,” comes his answer, sly tone and all. 

Matsukawa blinks, lowers his eyes from Hanamaki’s own to the crooked curve of his smirk. “All that charm of yours, I guess.”

At this Hanamaki balks and it’s so false and dramatic and cute that Matsukawa can’t help but be captivated by it. “Hey, I’ll have you know this charm is _all natural_ ,” the man says, gesturing with a flourish of fingers up and down his body. “Not a single spell or glamor.” 

Matsukawa offers him a smile of his own then, pointedly ignoring the little jolt those particular words give his heart. He turns towards the steps, throwing over his shoulder, “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Hey wait,” Hanamaki says and it’s almost immediate, barely enough time for Matsukawa to take even one single step. When he turns back he’s met with a surprisingly concerned expression, one he’s not seen on Hanamaki thus far into their neighborly relationship. 

“What’s up, hm?” Hanamaki asks and his voice lilts calmly, though there’s still that usual hint of mirth. “You’ve got this _weird energy_ —something bothering you?”

“Uh, no,” Matsukawa shakes his head, doesn’t mention the nearly sleepless nights he’s been having since he’d woken up on the couch with a hard-on and the phantom memory of plush lips and long fingers, of heartbeats and grandfather clocks. 

“Really?” Hanamaki closes the gap between them easily, squinting over Matsukawa and tilting his head like a curious bird. “Definitely unbalanced,” he decides, then grabs at Matsukawa’s hand. “C’mon in, I’ve got just the thing for that.”

Where Hanamaki’s holding onto him, their palms pressed together and fingers twining naturally, Matsukawa feels a tingle of kinetic heat and energy even as the air around them is cool and crisp. 

Still, he lets Hanamaki guide him over to his still open doorway and into his familiar apartment. Not much has changed since Sunday night, except Matsukawa thinks maybe there’s a few less candles scattered about, though there are certainly still more than he has in his own home—which would be _zero_. 

Where the candelabra had sat the night of the storm, now atop the kotatsu sits a few of the instruments Matsukawa had seen in the kitchen before along with a medium sized black iron pot with squat little legs. It looks oddly familiar, deja vu, except also not. 

There’s something inside of it too, inside of the cauldron— _because that’s definitely what that is called,_ Matsukawa’s brain tells him warily. A bit of steam rises up from the pot’s contents, swirling and smoke-like, though it’s nearly invisible save for some bits of prism luminescence that Matsukawa thinks might just be his eyes playing tricks again.

“I’m not really in the mood for a smoke,” he says, eyes not leaving the pot. 

Hanamaki snorts at that, a silly little laugh as he tugs Matsukawa through the entryway and into the kitchen, not noticing the man’s wandering, curious gaze. 

“S’not something you smoke.” His eyes twinkle with amusement as he tugs open a tall cabinet, releasing Matsukawa long enough to rummage through about thirty-some-odd clinking glass jars, all hand written kanji labels, until he’s found what he’s searching for. 

“Chamomile and spearmint,” Hanamaki explains, brandishing two jars, the one holding the bright green mint leaves a bit larger than the other.

Matsukawa isn’t sure why (actually, maybe he _is_ ) but for a second there he thought maybe Hanamaki was going to pull out a baggie full of powders or little white tablets or maybe a vile of whatever brew seems to be creating iridescent steam in the living room. 

But—it’s just the fixings for a nice cup of tea. 

His shoulders slump with something that’s not quite disappointment, maybe relief, but that’s not really it either. 

Hanamaki moves past him towards a waist-high wood block table and proceeds to select several leaves and buds from each jar, placing them into a few sachets. The delicate chamomile petals glow an even starker white against the spearmint and their own sun-yellow centers. 

“That woman earlier,” Matsukawa finds himself asking as he watches the way Hanamaki’s fingers work with such careful ease. “Was she here to get tea too?” 

“Kido-san?” Hanamaki hums, shakes his head as he works tying off the sachets. “Nah, she needs the heavier stuff.”

“Drugs?” Matsukawa raises a brow, halfway caught between sarcasm and genuine disbelief. 

At this Hanamaki’s cheek twitches like he’s biting it from the inside. His eyes flicker up to meet Matsukawa’s own, something so amused in their depths it makes the usual slate-grey shine silver. “Issei, do I look like a drug dealer to you?”

“I dunno.” Matsukawa shrugs honestly where he still stands a bit awkwardly in the doorway of the other man’s kitchen. “It’s hard to tell, you’re kind of odd.”

It’s such the truth, but it comes out more like a joke than anything. Which is probably for the best, considering how rude Matsukawa sounds once he actually thinks about what he’s just said. 

But instead of glowering, Hanamaki bursts out in laughter, genuine and pleasant, _so_ pleasant Matsukawa could swear the lightbulbs in the venetian pink lily shade chandelier overhead flicker along with the sound. “Oh stop, you’re making me blush,” Hanamaki says around a toothy grin. “Kido-san uses one of my tinctures—oatstraw, wilted comfrey leaf, and horsetail for her osteoporosis.”

Matsukawa feels something inside of himself shift a bit. “Sounds like a magic potion,” he says before he can think twice about it. 

Hanamaki lifts a finger up, tapping it next to his nose. “Not too far off, my friend.”

When Matsukawa sucks in a breath, heavier than usual, the strong scent of sage fills his nose. “So, you’re one of those holistic people?”

It’s a little unnerving, how he thinks he already knows the answer to that particular question. 

A few strands of unruly pink hair bounce against the crown of Hanamaki’s head when he shakes it back and forth, giving Matsukawa such the look. “Pft. No way, I’m the _real deal_.”

“The real deal,” Matsukawa repeats, a little deadpan. He feels somewhat dizzy, not quite even realizing that Hanamaki’s stretching out his hand to dangle the tea sachets in front of Matsukawa’s face. 

“Yep,” Hanamaki says like it’s nothing. “Now, brew a cup of that before bed tonight and I can personally guarantee you a deep, full night’s sleep.”

Matsukawa blinks before plucking the bags from Hanamaki’s fingers, nails painted a pretty shade of indigo today. “You sound like a used car salesmen or some shit,” he mutters on impulse, smirk fighting it’s way onto his lips despite that sense of asymmetry. 

Hanamaki’s smile doesn’t falter, perhaps only grows bigger if at all possible. “Better than a drug dealer.”

When Matsukawa’s back outside, halfway up the steps to his apartment, he realizes he’d never actually told Hanamaki about not being able to sleep.

* * *

Magic isn’t something Matsukawa has ever thought much about. Not charms or potions, psychic powers or the occult. He’s not particularly against the idea of believing, but he’s really never had a reason to even consider it before. He’s not superstitious, but he also doesn’t really think that has to do with anything at this point.

Hanamaki Takahiro—there’s just something about him and _magical_ seems like maybe just the right word to use.

The wind howls outside tonight, a full moon high in the sky; a drop of iridescent pearl snow floating on black ice. There’s no rain this time, but there’s a definite chill in the air. 

The television flickers through the darkness of his living room. Matsukawa’s got the news on, the late broadcast, and the anchor sounds just as bored and heavy as Matsukawa feels sinking into the depths of his couch. 

Outside, the wind has stopped only to be replaced with the faintest sound of scratching against his front door. It’s an ominous noise by nature, but it doesn’t manage to bother Matsukawa half as much as it irritates him—probably someone’s passing advertisements or take-out menus through his mail-slot, which is even more inherently rude at such a late hour when he’s trying to zone into the void. 

When he stands, pulling his body begrudgingly upwards, Matsukawa has to fix his sweater where it falls half down his shoulder, too-big even with his broadness. When the door flings open he’s got a heavy-browed scowl on full power, but on his front stoop stands no one to receive it. 

Matsukawa frowns for real this time, the wind picking that exact moment to slice through him where he stands barefoot and threadbare in his own home. It is, however, accompanied by a plaintive little screech that Matsukawa knows he’s heard somewhere before. 

His gaze flicks down only to be met with sleek black fur and twitching, luminescent whiskers. 

Abra sits there, staring up at him with a particularly fussy expression. When she opens her mouth again to let loose a rather whiny yowl, Matsukawa can see every one of her sharp little teeth.

“Hello to you to,” he says in a hushed tone, which seems to mean at least _something_ to her because suddenly she’s shooting forward to dodge around Matsukawa’s legs. 

With a startled noise, nearly a laugh, in the back of his throat Matsukawa is just able to catch the feline, grabbing her around the ribs and tucking her up into his arms. “And where do you think you’re going?” he murmurs, watching her eyes narrow up at him even as purrs start to vibrate out of her on instinct alone. 

Carefully, with Abra starting to wiggle just a bit in his embrace, Matsukawa toes on his boots and grabs his keys from the hook on the wall. It’s only when he’s finally gotten his front door locked and only a couple of scratches for his trouble, does he hear footsteps stomping up the stairs behind him.

When Matsukawa turns he’s sure to put on his best smirk, some quip about sending a cat to do your dirty work resting on his tongue, but when he finds Hanamaki standing there perfectly illuminated in the moonlight Matsukawa finds his mind going entirely blank. 

He’s wearing these skin tight black leather pants tucked into low suede boots with just enough heel that Matsukawa thinks they might finally be eye to eye. A shirt of diaphanous material is tucked into the high waist, so sheer the black looks nearly silver with the way it flows against Hanamaki’s pale skin. The neck is cut deep to reveal a panel of lace and layers of delicate chains resting over Hanamaki’s chest, that familiar pendant of quartz lit a soft rose to match the visible flush of Hanamaki’s cheeks.His eyes are ringed with coal, the lids clearly dusted with varying shades of amber and smoke and his lashes are thicker and darker than usual. 

But, perhaps most mesmerizing of all: Hanamaki’s hair glows in the faint darkness between them, each strand shimmering a different shade of pink as they twist in the wind and catch the moonlight. 

“Good evening,” Hanamaki says and his voice is huskier than usual, maybe with the slightest edge of intoxication or high, Matsukawa can’t be sure. But his lips are glossy when they pull into a secretive sort of smile, probably because he’s caught Matsukawa staring. 

It takes Matsukawa a moment to find his voice again, mouth suddenly feeling sticky and dry. He licks at his lips, ignoring the rumbly, knowing meow Abra presses into his chest where she’s taken to burrowing in. 

“Oh, um,” he finally stumbles out. “She was at my door—"

“Naughty brat,” Hanamaki says with a playful wagging of his finger in the cat’s direction. “Why were you bothering Issei, hm?” 

“She wasn’t bothering me,” Matsukawa explains, his throat finally feeling a little less raw. “I just wanted to make sure she hadn’t gotten locked out.”

Hanamaki does this funny little thing with his mouth, twisting it and rolling his eyes skyward. “She’s got the key, don’t worry about her,” he snips, with little actual heat. “She was just being difficult because I wouldn’t let her come with me tonight.”

Matsukawa hums, nods, because he doesn’t really know what else to do with information like that, the type that rings odd when he repeats it inside his own head. “Okay then.”

At this juncture, Abra takes it upon herself to push out of Matsukawa’s hold, falling to land on her feet on the uneven cement between their feet. Matsukawa shuffles a bit awkwardly, not exactly sure how to end this conversation, and decides abruptly to turn back towards his front door, keys jingling where they’re still clutched in his fingers. 

“Wait,” Hanamaki says then, sounding just a little bit anxious, and it’s definitely deja vu this time. “You wanna come over?”

Something shivers down Matsukawa’s spine and it’s got nothing to do with the nighttime chill. 

He turns back to face Hanamaki, trying not to let that hopeful look misting over the other man’s features get to him too much. “You’re not leaving?” Matsukawa wonders cautiously. 

“Just getting home actually.” Hanamaki plays with the cuff of his blouse, a couple of silver rings catching Matsukawa’s eye with the movement. “The party was fun, but the company kinda shitty.”

When Matsukawa looks back to Hanamaki’s face, he finds a soft, lilting smirk there and despite the odd feeling brewing low in his stomach, he can’t possibly bring himself to deny such an invitation. 

* * *

There’s something inexplicably comforting about Hanamaki’s home. It might be the scent of patchouli and vanilla in the air this time, the warmth of those familiar velvet floor cushions and cozy throws, the tang of something enigmatic lingering at the bottom of Matsukawa’s nearly empty cup.

Hanamaki’s lips are tinted with a hint of plum-red from the mulled wine—homemade, Matsukawa can only assume considering the hand painted bottle it’d been poured from, steaming hot before it had even hit the glass. 

“So, a party?” Matsukawa wonders, muscles lax and content. “Someone’s birthday?”

Hanamaki leans back on his hands, the motion causing the fabric of his shirt to shimmer and settle against his chest to reveal the faintest hint of some kind of jewelry laced through each nipple. 

“Mabon,” he explains and if Matsukawa is feeling mellow, Hanamaki is entirely loose and unrestrained. “You’d call it Autumnal Equinox.”

Matsukawa can’t help the little hiccup of a laugh that emanates from his throat. “Sounds—spooky.”

“Fuck no.” Hanamaki’s head shakes, neck rolling, but his smirk is as sharp as ever. “Just wait till Hallows Eve.”

One of the transistor radios next to Hanamaki’s ancient television set, a baby-yellow vinyl Crosely, thrums with rhythmic guitar and bass, swaying and eery through the occasional crackle of sound waves. Even though the power’s working, Hanamaki has opted to illuminate his small living room by candlelight, flames licking gold and some a strangely intriguing violet. Down the hall, the grandfather clock chimes the quarter-hour, low and hollow. 

Matsukawa’s tongue burns inside his mouth, mind humid and thick with dark curiosity. When Hanamaki’s eyes capture his own, Matsukawa stares straight back down into their depths, ignoring the shadows dancing around them where they sit nearly knee to knee.

“Can I ask you something?” Matsukawa says. 

Hanamaki shrugs one shoulder deep enough to disturb the collar of his shirt, revealing a shining swath of milky skin. “Ask away.”

“What is it that you do, exactly?”

The question pours off his tongue with ease even if Matsukawa’s subconscious already knows the answer. 

Hanamaki seems somewhat charmed by this, like he hadn’t seen this turn of events coming, or maybe he _had_ and he just enjoys the novelty. Matsukawa wonders how many other people have asked him the same question in the past. 

“Don’t you mean ‘ _what is it that I am?’_ ” Hanamaki’s voice rolls out of his throat, full of that familiar mystery that Matsukawa can’t seem to get his fill of. Those eyes glow cat-like to match the curve of his lips, half-lidded and still painted in glittering smoke. “Haven’t you figured it out by now, Issei?”

He has, _he has_. Matsukawa feels his heart like a stone in his chest, heavy and ticking like the pendulum of the clock from his dreams, the clock echoing in the here and now. He wants to hear it, needs to hear it from Hanamaki’s own lips. 

“Humor me,” Matsukawa says, letting his own gaze fall half-shut; lazy and yet so very much awake. 

On cue, the candles flicker out on an unseen tendril of breath, swamping the entire apartment into pitch blackness for a long, silent second before the lamp in the corner clicks to life, a rainbow of gemstone colors staining the carpet below. 

Hanamaki’s smile has turned slick and plush, his pendant a fiery shade of magenta where it tangles in the rest of the jewelry, crooked over his heart. “Grade A witch, in the flesh,” comes the answer Matsukawa had been waiting for all this time. 

There’s a moment wherein he considers getting to his feet, thanking his host for the drink, and then leaving this all behind him. There certainly must be an abundance of clever ways to avoid your eccentric downstairs neighbor. 

And yet— 

“A real witch?” Matsukawa murmurs, feeling something slide up next to him, all velvet fur and cunning. “As in witchcraft, that whole deal?”

Abra makes her way past Matsukawa to slide into Hanamaki’s waiting lap, curling her tail around herself and blinking innocently over at their houseguest. An advertisement fizzles through the radio for a few seconds before an unseen force tunes through the channels to find another decade’s old ballad. 

“A real witch, the whole shebang,” Hanamaki says, lifting a hand to count off on his fingers, nails looking like they’ve been dipped in pewter. “I do potions, tonics, tarots and more. But I don’t do ghosts and dead people, I ain’t no hedge witch. That stuff gives me the creeps.”

Whatever metaphysical air had been conjuring between them is snuffed out with Hanamaki’s peeling laughter and the way he visibly shivers at the thought. 

“That’s where you draw the line, huh,” Matsukawa asks, trying valiantly to keep a straight face under the circumstances, but finding it nearly impossible with the amount of real affection he feels for the man sitting next to him, grinning so open and honest.

“In thick black permanent marker,” Hanamaki answers seriously, slamming his palm down on the kotatsu hard enough to rattle their forgotten glassware. 

“You’re kind of weird.” Matsukawa says, entirely unabashed. “Even for a witch.” 

“Know a lot of witches then, do you?” Hanamaki wonders, waggling his brows and it’s almost too much to take. 

Matsukawa offers up a smile, genuine but also maybe just a little wry. “You’re the very first.”

Hanamaki places a hand over his chest. “I feel honored, Issei.”

He’s not sure why, but somehow Matsukawa’s brain presses into overdrive with the urge to lean forward and wrap his fingers through Hanamaki’s short, pink locks. He wants to feel his lips against that full, wine-stained mouth. His leg slotted between those thick, leather-encased thighs.

Matsukawa hopes that’s the alcohol talking and not something a little more _potent_. 

And maybe Hanamaki is a mind reader—if he’s a witch, he’s probably more in-tune with the immaterial, after all—because suddenly he’s crawling forward, pushing a growling Abra out of his lap, and snaring a kiss straight off Matsukawa’s lips.


	3. the full moon is calling, the fever is high

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [theme music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ESc2Tq2HzhQ)   
>    
> 

The first touch is somewhat tentative, a brush of skin and warmth, until Matsukawa’s shaking hands trail their way up Hanamaki’s neck to reverently grasp at the soft flesh there. Their mouths slot together a bit more fervently then, tongues licking out to tease and seek permission. Beneath the pads of his fingers, the skin of Hanamaki’s neck, his cheeks, is silk soft and Matsukawa holds onto it, petting like it’s delicate wax paper crystal. 

“You’re not freaked out by me?” Hanamaki murmurs between kisses, lower lip sticky against Matsukawa’s own.

Matsukawa licks away a thread of slickness, tongue tingling. “About the witchy thing?”

“Yeah, the witchy thing.” Hanamaki swallows, pulls back just enough to put a warm breath between them. “Don’t want that to fuck things up.”

Matsukawa can see the faintest hint of uncertainty, of insecurity in Hanamaki’s features. It’s just the barest crack in his cool, enigmatic facade but it’s there just the same.

“Not gonna fuck anything up,” Matsukawa puffs out, blinking through a new set of thoughts. “That uh, that stuff you’ve given me—the cigarette and the tea—s’not a charm or spell or some shit?”

Hanamaki shakes his head forcefully enough for Matsukawa’s hands to fall to his shoulders, to his arms encased in that fine, smoky material. “Nah, just herbal remedies, I swear.”

Matsukawa allows himself a moment to take in Hanamaki’s open features, honest in the dim, stained-glass light. “So, never used witchcraft on me then?”

“Never, I’d _never_ —not without consent—” The words spill fast from Hanamaki’s mouth. “You believe that, right?” 

Matsukawa never doubted him, but it’s nice to hear it aloud either way. “Yeah, yeah I do.” He nods and then, “But—what about _with_ my consent?”

Hanamaki nearly jumps under Matsukawa’s hold, his face twisting into something roguish and so very attractive. “Issei, you’re not talking dirty, are you?”

“Just thinking,” Matsukawa says. “That stuff we smoked—gave me some pretty heady fucking dreams.”

Hanamaki’s low-lidded eyes glint, blown-glass silver. “You too, huh?” 

This time it’s Matsukawa who makes the first move, pulling Hanamaki closer to him, their limbs tangling together as the other man settles his weight firmly in Matsukawa’s lap. They trail lips over swollen mouths, down sensitive jaws, and quivering necks. Matsukawa maps constellations over Hanamaki’s copper freckles and in turn, the witch traces appreciative fingers just beneath the hem of Matsukawa’s shirt, digging into the smooth planes of muscle there.

It’s almost too much—but mostly its just _not enough_. 

“So if you’re a witch—” Matsukawa breathes into the soft juncture between Hanamaki’s shoulder and neck. “Do you ride a broom?”

Hanamaki laughs and the sound vibrates pleasantly where their bodies touch through nearly every limb. “Why is that always the first assumption?”

“Now you’re just avoiding the answer.” Matsukawa pulls away to quirk a brow, trying to ignore Hanamaki’s unabashed whine at the loss of lips on his skin. “You’ve got the black cat and a _cauldron,_ if I’m not mistaken—you’re following along the trope pretty well, I’d say.”

Something electric zips between them as Hanamaki’s hips press down, grinding into Matsukawa’s clothed cock with his own leather wrapped hardness. “I don’t ride a broom, Issei,” he says, more mischievous than ever. “Doesn’t mean I won’t ride something _else_.”

Matsukawa chokes between a laugh and a moan. “That was terrible.”

Hanamaki twitches his hips again, a little more sweetly this time. “You liked it.”

It would be a downright lie to deny it, so instead Matsukawa threads his fingers through Hanamaki’s hair, angling his head so he can slot their mouths together for another round of sloppy, slick kisses. Hanamaki’s pants are tight, but Matsukawa still manages to peel them open, an impatient hand moving up and over his sharp hip and down over the swell of his ass only to realize the sensation against his palm isn’t skin or cotton, but _lace_. 

“Shit,” Matsukawa hisses out, eyes flashing open to find Hanamaki smirking at him. 

Shadows drip down their twined skin as together they makes quick work of their remaining clothing. In the echoes of his mind the grandfather clock announces the hour and Matsukawa has no concept of time any more, feeling so suddenly preoccupied if not a little off-kilter. But it does feel late, dark and cloying nighttime seeping in through the window panes. 

The black lace clinging to Hanamaki’s hips and wet cock plays beautifully against his pale form, the only other bit of clothing left on his body save for the small silver hoops through his nipples is that familiar quartz pendant, glowing the closest to crimson Matsukawa’s ever seen it. 

Hanamaki rests his arms atop Matsukawa’s broad shoulders, leaning into him with this lazy look. “This okay?” he murmurs, sounding a little hazy with arousal. 

Matsukawa rubs his hands over the man’s hips, up the soft flesh of his waist. “Yeah,” he says. “Been thinking about it for a while.”

“How shameless,” Hanamaki teases with a low chuckle. Matsukawa watches carefully as he flicks his fingers through the air next to them in some type of summoning motion. “Sex dreams about your neighbor.”

From his peripheral Matsukawa can see a little vial floating through the air on command before it dips into Hanamaki’s waiting hand. A couple of the violet candles come back to life with a sudden snuff of their wicks, the scent of amber filling Matsukawa’s nose with each steady breath he takes.

“H-hey,” he starts, having to clear his throat once or twice as Hanamaki plucks out the cork with his teeth. “Then you’re just as shameless.”

“I won’t deny that,” Hanamaki says, dropping the cork to be lost in the cushions. “It was my carefully cultivated mugwort that tripped out our dreams, after all.”

Matsukawa swallows. “You said no witchcraft—”

“And it’s the absolute truth, I promise,” Hanamaki answers with earnest. “It’s a natural side effect, but dreams are tricky that way, playing on your sub-conscience, you know.” 

Matsukawa knows—kind of like how eating his guilty-pleasure cheeseburgers too late in the evening gives him night terrors. He thinks, however, that a dream tinted with sex and Hanamaki is much more welcome—

The sensation of something slick and warm pulls Matsukawa out of his own head, blinking to find an oozing stream of something glinting between opaque and opalescent being poured straight from the vial, over Hanamaki’s long fingers and dripping onto Matsukawa’s exposed cock. 

“S’that your way of flirting?” He swallows down a groan when Hanamaki’s palm wraps around him, tugging gently to spread what can only be homemade lubricant. “Giving your crush psychotropic herbs?”

Hanamaki twists where he’s still straddling Matsukawa’s lap, arm disappearing behind him and eyes falling shut before he answers, voice tighter than before. “Who said any—anything about a c-crush?”

Matsukawa’s not sure how long he’s going to be able to last with Hanamaki sounding like that as he literally starts to finger himself open hovering over Matsukawa’s waiting erection. 

In fact, Matsukawa’s brain might short circuit a little bit, especially with the new tingling sensation spreading down from the head of his cock. “C’mon, you know I’m irresistible,” he sputters out, eyeing the line of Hanamaki’s neck as he cranes his head and lets out a soft sigh of obvious pleasure. 

“Isn’t that my line?” Hanamaki smirks, lips slick from where his tongue has wet them. His smoke painted lids are still shut, lashes obsidian fans against his flushed cheeks, but Matsukawa is certain he can feel eyes on him just the same.  
“You are definitely irresistible, Takahiro,” Matsukawa rumbles, petting up Hanamaki’s sides and enjoying the quiver he gets in return. “There was something about you from the start—had me _charmed_ , not to sound cliché.” 

At this Hanamaki’s eyes slit back open, watching Matsukawa carefully. “Had you spellbound, hm?”

“Absolutely bewitched,” Matsukawa manages, even if his voice comes out a bit choked off what with the way Hanamaki wriggles in his lap, wrist twisting. 

“Oh _fuck_ , I’m—I’m ready—” Hanamaki gasps out, shuddering, and Matsukawa can only assume his fingers have located a particularly sensitive spot. 

Matsukawa licks his lips, unable to look away from that flush crawling steadily up Hanamaki’s bared neck. “This pillow talk really doin’ it for you, huh?”

“That and—and the lube.”

Those lace panties pull taught against Hanamaki’s stiff cock when he pulls his fingers free, but all Matsukawa can do is freeze as his words register. 

“Takahiro,” he starts slowly, feeling his heart start to pound a little faster. “What do you mean 'the lube.’”

“Feel that tingling warmth? S’not just our chemistry.” Hanamaki shifts, moving to thread his free hand into the curls at Matsukawa’s nape. “That, my dear, is witchcraft.” 

Matsukawa gasps when Hanamaki’s slick fingers find his cock, tugging firmly and massaging the lubricant until it’s so warm that it’s almost too much. Pre-cum mixes with opalescent, dripping a shiny cocktail down Hanamaki’s wrist. 

“S’little concoction I’ve been brewing up,” the man says, sounding drunk on both arousal and the explanation itself. “Sun steeped calendula, coconut oil, rosemary and of course a little extra heat spell too.” He grins, cheeks puffing, and gives Matsukawa another good pull. “Isn’t it fucking awesome?”

Matsukawa can admit that it’s absolutely _fucking awesome_ —but it’s not just the overwhelming sensation or the fact that he feels like he might come at any second, it’s Hanamaki on top of him, grinding against him and generally making his mind lose all control of itself. 

“F-fuck,” Matsukawa grits out, wrapping his arms firmly around Hanamaki’s waist and sitting up just a bit straighter. “What if this ruins me for normal sex?”

“Stick with me and that won’t be a problem.” Hanamaki has the gall to actually wink. 

It makes Matsukawa feel warm all over, even warmer than the lubricant or their shared arousal is making him feel. His lips tug into a smile when he realizes he can imagine himself sticking with Hanamaki with or without the mind-blowing sex. 

“So, you really don’t ride a broomstick?” Matsukawa murmurs, tucking his sappy grin into Hanamaki’s sternum to press a kiss against the soft skin there. 

Hanamaki’s chest flexes with his chuckle, deep and velvet, before suddenly there’s steady hands on Matsukawa’s shoulders pushing him to lie back on the plush floor cushions. “Not exactly my style,” Hanamaki says with definite gravity to his words as he flexes his thighs and hovers purposefully up over Matsukawa’s hips. 

A halo of candlelight glows from behind Hanamaki’s body, his hair tousled and the stone swaying like a pendulum from his neck matches perfectly this time. 

Matsukawa’s throat feels tight, his head floaty, but he still remembers to ask, “Condom?” 

Immediately Hanamaki’s fingers flicker in the air in that same motion from before. “I can get one if you want—it’s up to you.” 

Matsukawa takes in that genuine gaze, Hanamaki’s pewter nail polish glinting when his fingers twitch. “Without,” Matsukawa decides readily. 

Hanamaki seems pleased by this, so he braces one hand down atop Matsukawa’s chest and the other behind to reach for his cock, now even more fine-tuned to each and every brush of fingers and skin. 

Somewhere behind them comes a low growl, nearly a purr but definitely more affronted than anything, then the slam of a door that makes Matsukawa jump sending Hanamaki a bit off-balance at the same time.

“She really does like you, y’know,” Hanamaki snickers and Matsukawa thinks now is not exactly the best time to be discussing this, though the realization for some reason does fill his chest with an inordinate amount of pride. 

Matsukawa is about the respond, but Hanamaki beats him to it by pressing down over his cock in one, smooth motion. 

He thinks maybe there’s a little more to that lubricant than Hanamaki is letting on. 

“Holy shit,” Hanamaki breathes out, thighs twitching where they squeeze against Matsukawa’s sides. 

It takes everything in his power not to thrust immediately up into that warm, wet, _otherworldly_ heat. Matsukawa digs his fingers into the doughy flesh of Hanamaki’s ass, leaving soft half-moon marks there and that in itself causes another shaky sound to rise up out of the man’s chest. Hanamaki is squirming on top of him, bouncing just enough to grind his prostate against the hard cock inside of him and Matsukawa is slowly _dying_. 

“Fuck, m’not gonna last,” Matsukawa whines out, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, but that’s quickly proving to be an absurd hope. His neck bends, head pressing into the cushions beneath them and his hips give a twitchy, unrestrained thrust upwards. 

“Ah,” Hanamaki gasps, but doesn’t complain, simply presses his splayed hands firmly against Matsukawa’s chest for balance before lifting himself up only to slam back down with a satisfying sound of sticky skin-on-lace. 

Matsukawa thinks maybe he should have asked for a condom, if for no other reason than endurance. The lubricant is so incredibly smooth, helping Hanamaki glide over his cock like it’s nothing; warm, intoxicating silk. 

A couple of candles nearby snuff out, smoke twirling in the air overhead and Matsukawa tries to focus on that, on the phasing shadows on the wall near the bookcase, on the moon glow creeping in through the window. 

Hanamaki’s breath comes quick and short, his movements becoming a bit slower, deeper, languid. The fingers scratching over his flesh twitch, tracing some unfamiliar pattern. Something crackles and Matsukawa can smell a twist of amber and smoke before suddenly the palms pressing into his bare skin warm over, melting into his chest and over his nipples. 

The resulting groan echoes through the entire apartment, rumbling straight up through Hanamaki and the man grins lopsided and euphoric as he continues to ride Matsukawa, ass slapping against his hips.

“The fuck?” Matsukawa breathes out, unsure if he can come up with anything more intelligent at the moment.

“Heat spell.” Hanamaki shivers as the words tumble out of his mouth, tightening around Matsukawa dangerously as another fizzle of tickling heat crawls down the straining muscles and dips of Matsukawa’s stomach. 

He can’t help wondering if it’s an involuntary response, or else maybe Hanamaki is actually a _succubus_ here to reap his soul straight out through his—

Hanamaki keens, baring his neck when he apparently hits just the perfect angle. Matsukawa buries his fingers into the wet lace still clinging to Hanamaki’s hips, tugging until he can wrap a palm around his hard length. He tries to match the pace of Hanamaki’s thrusts, but they’re getting less and less rhythmic by the second and Matsukawa’s whole body is starting to shake with sensation. 

It’s when Hanamaki leans forward, grasping frantically at Matsukawa’s chin to slot their lips together, that he finally starts to lose any last bits of control he’d had left. It takes a second for his fucked out muscles to respond, but when they do Matsukawa plants his feet atop the soft cushions, changing the angle just enough to thrust up into Hanamaki. It forces a loud moan, almost a shout, from the man’s throat into the humid air between them, lips clinging together with wetness and warmth. 

Hanamaki comes in wet, jagged streaks across Matsukawa’s quivering hand and stomach. Matsukawa’s cock is caught in the convulsion, heat and lubricant dragging his orgasm out of him, unable to hold back any longer. 

They lay there like that for a second or two, maybe minutes, maybe hours. Matsukawa certainly doesn’t know, considering his ears are still ringing loudly enough that even if the clock struck midnight, chiming twelve hollow echoes down the hall, he wouldn’t be able to hear it. 

What manages to finally pull Matsukawa up out of the dregs of his heady, hazy state is the tickle of fingers playing against his ribcage and the acute pressure of Hanamaki’s quartz pendant digging into his sternum where Hanamaki’s slumped across his chest. 

Matsukawa tries to be gentle and slow when he pulls out, feeling lace brushing across his sensitive cock as he goes. Hanamaki groans a little, but ends up stretching his legs out to twine against Matsukawa’s own so they can lay back in the floor pillows a bit more comfortably. 

“Mm, I’ve never done that before,” Hanamaki mumbles and Matsukawa feels his heart flip inside his ribcage. 

He tilts his gaze down to regard Hanamaki closely. “Seriously?”

In turn Hanamaki snickers at his reaction. “I’m not a virgin,” he explains. “I meant the other part—the _witchy_ part.”

“The witchy part,” Matsukawa deadpans, reaching out to pinch at the plush of Hanamaki’s ass.

Still, Hanamaki’s smirk doesn’t dissipate even with his lips halfway smashed against Matsukawa’s shoulder. “You’re the first person not to, y’know, be weirded out or freak on me.” 

Matsukawa forces his mouth into a neutral line. “You weird me out plenty.”

“Right back at ya, Issei.”

“Takahiro,” Matsukawa huffs. “I have done absolutely nothing weird since you’ve met me.”

“You just had sex with a witch—magically enhanced sex, no less.” Hanamaki’s brows wiggle. “ _That’s_ pretty weird.” 

Matsukawa can, obviously, not deny this—he will even admit that Hanamaki’s right, it _is_ weird. But Matsukawa isn’t bothered by that in the least. Instead, in retaliation, he presses a couple of fingers into Hanamaki’s side, into that ticklish part just under his ribs.

“Aren’t witches supposed to be all mysterious and cool?” he asks. “I’m starting to think you’re actually more of a dork than anything.”

Hanamaki snorts, unable to help himself, and wriggles closer to Matsukawa if that’s at all possible. He flutters his lashes, still thick with mascara. “But—?”

“But,” Matsukawa concedes, smile growing. “You are at least a cute dork.”

Hanamaki beams, to match the brightness glowing from where his necklace is caught between their flushed bodies. “Right back at ya, Issei.” 

* * *

“Wow, you’re face is absolutely priceless,” Matsukawa says, digging in his pocket for his phone. “Hold still, let me get my camera.”

Hanamaki is glaring, bottom lip puffed out in a pout that Matsukawa is half tempted to wipe off his face with a sloppy kiss. “That hat is ugly and tasteless,” he gripes. 

Matsukawa makes a show of looking over his outfit, adjusting the wide-brimmed black hat and brushing a bit of imaginary dust off his dark tailored shirt. He twists around to grab the wooden handle resting against the counter behind him, brandishing it with a thick smirk for Hanamaki to see.

“What about the broom?” Matsukawa wonders innocently. 

Hanamaki’s got this attractive bit of redness crawling up his neck that serves to negate the effect of his put-upon scowl. “You’re mocking me.”

“I am not,” Matsukawa insists, shuffling forward to toy with the red pom-pom on Hanamaki’s beanie. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

Hanamaki squints at him through his round, plastic-frame glasses. “This is _not_ imitation,” he says gesturing over Matsukawa’s chosen costume with a flick of his hand. “This is a bad joke.”

“Alright, well bad jokes are kind of my thing, so—”

“You’re lucky I like you so much.” 

Matsukawa waggles his thick brows. “You’re sure you don’t want to take a ride?”

Hanamaki meets that with a blank look. “On what—the broom or you?”

Beside them, Abra jumps up onto the counter with an exasperated meow and, if cats were able to roll their eyes, Matsukawa is sure she’d be doing so very blatantly. 

“See, you’re good at bad jokes too,” Matsukawa says, grinning. “We’re a perfect match.”

“At least my costume is creative.” Hanamaki plucks at his red and white striped shirt and Matsukawa bites his tongue rather than argue at this point. “ _You’re_ just an overdone cliché.” 

Matsukawa considers this, tugging at the slightly-too small waist of his black pants of choice. “I think I look pretty damn good actually.”

Hanamaki’s eyes follow his movements, roving over his body, but purposefully not looking up at this witch’s hat or broom. “Hmm, well that _is_ true,” he admits, studying Matsukawa’s long, lean legs. “Hey, wait—are these _my_ leather pants?”

“I borrowed them for authenticity,” Matsukawa says around a smirk, swooping in to wrap an arm around Hanamaki’s hips, pulling him close to whisper against the shell of his ear. “And I borrowed a little something else— _underneath_.”

“Issei, I take it back—I _love_ this costume.” 

“I figured you would come around to it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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